


(Not) Lying to George

by OmeletteAche



Category: A Room With a View - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Missing Scene, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29800968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmeletteAche/pseuds/OmeletteAche
Summary: After Lucy meets with George's father, she realises that she loves George -- but she still has to tell him.
Relationships: George Emerson/Lucy Honeychurch





	(Not) Lying to George

**Author's Note:**

> Set between the last two scenes of the movie, after old Mr Emerson has spoken to Lucy and she finds out that he and George are moving away. Lucy goes to find George in his new house.

It was a short walk from the train station to George’s new residence and Lucy found the directions from Mr Emerson were easy enough to follow, though she felt her anxiety rise with every step. She took a deep breath as she reached her destination and took stock of her surroundings. The house itself was small and cream coloured, modest but neat, with mossy slate roofing, and a green door, which had been left slightly ajar.

Receiving no answer when she rapped on the door, she gingerly entered and walked through the only clear path between unpacked boxes. There she saw George hanging curtains, his large frame silhouetted against the window. Sunlit motes of dust circled him as he worked. He must have been too focused to hear her knocking or approaching him. She could have spoken to alert him to her presence, but instead chose to take a moment to observe him. It had been too long since she gotten a chance. At last, he finished with the curtain and turned around, starting when he saw her. Lucy felt her stomach do a somersault.

“Miss Honeychurch,” he said. So, she was Miss Honeychurch again. The last time they’d spoken, he had called her by her first name. Lucy suddenly felt very silly. She had hoped, perhaps childishly, that at the very sight of her he might gather her up into his arms, and kiss her like he had in Florence. Now that idea seemed ridiculous. He didn’t look like a man desperately in love, but a flustered man in the middle of moving house. Which he was. Perhaps she should not have come after all.

“Mr Emerson,” she replied. “You were not expecting me.”

“No.” He didn’t ask her what she was doing there, but the question hung in the air.

“I heard you were moving house. I hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye.” It was a cowardly way to put it. She had no intention of saying goodbye, and she found herself angry at her own lie.

He seemed to study her, as if trying to read her thoughts and then nodded. “It was a sudden decision. My father is coming up later today.” Then, apparently, remembering his manners, “Would you like some tea? I have unpacked the kettle.”

She replied in the affirmative, though she didn’t feel sure of her decision -- to refuse a cup of tea was rather rude, but then it felt just as bad to make the poor man hunt for the teacups and sugar.

She found herself awkwardly surveying the house. It was cramped to be sure, but light, and far cosier and homier than Cissie Villa. Pale white and blue striped wallpaper lined the walls – freshly applied, she thought, as there was a faint lingering smell of glue. Only a few furniture items had arrived. Perhaps they were new.

She followed him to the kitchen and watched him silently as he poured water into the kettle and put it on to boil. A lock of his hair fell forward as he bent over the stove and she fought the desire to step forward and brush it off his face. Instead, she waited, watching as he retrieved the tin of tea bags. It struck her that perhaps she was being unbearably awkward, just standing there.

“I broke off my engagement with Cecil.” She immediately inwardly cursed herself for blurting it out.

For a split second, George froze, the tea bag he was holding hovering above the teapot before he dropped it in. And then he continued, and poured in the boiling water.

“Sugar?” he asked. There was an almost imperceptible tension in his mouth as he spoke.

“One, please.”

Lucy realised that had never seen him like this – so guarded and evasive. It didn’t suit him. He had sometimes been difficult to read before, but never by his own intent. But, she supposed, in this case, it had been her own doing.

“You don’t seem surprised,” she continued. “About Cecil.”

“I’m not.” There it was -- the renowned Emerson candour. At least that had not been diminished.

“Don’t you want to know why I did it?”

“I know why.” His voice remained impassive. He gestured for her to take the cup of tea. “He couldn’t love you. Not really.” It wasn’t unkindly said, more matter of fact than anything else.

She found her mouth had gone completely dry. They moved to the living room where they drank their tea. It felt wrong, she realised, to be sitting and sipping so primly across from the man she adored. The room suddenly felt too warm. She felt a wave of claustrophobia. Her tea was only half drunk, but she stood up. “May we go outside? I’d love to see the garden.”

He nodded his assent, and opening the back door, led her into the small garden where lilacs and roses were nestled in the dappled light beneath pink flowered dogwood trees. Lucy took just a second to enjoy the cool breeze.

“You did warn me. You did say. About Cecil, I mean,” she said, turning to him, now determined to drive the now-flagging conversation forward, though George seemed to thwart it at every turn.

He frowned. “What did I say?”

“That day at Windy Corner. You said, ‘He can’t know anyone intimately, least of all a woman.’ You were right.” Lucy felt a rush of guilt for bringing poor Cecil into this again. It wasn’t about Cecil anyhow. “You were right about everything.” In a startling flare of frustration, she took his large hand in her two small ones. “I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?”

He stood motionless; his eyebrows knitted together. Lucy felt her courage fail her again and she let his hand free. If only he would say something. She remembered what old Mr Emerson had said -- “He only tried when he should not have tried.” George must have thought that too. That he should not have tried. That trying had been a mistake. More than she was angry at him, she was angry at herself.

She turned to leave, but he caught her by the elbow. “Don’t go.” He sighed and released her as she turned back. “Why did you really come? What do you want, Lucy?”

Lucy felt a sudden flush of blood to her ears. At least she could answer that question truthfully. “I want you to kiss me.” Now that it had been said, she couldn’t take it back. That was all the permission George needed. In a second, his arms were around her waist, his warm lips on hers. Relief mixed with a heady rush of ecstasy washed over her.

He must have been feeling the same way for he murmured “Oh, thank God” against her neck, between kisses.

“But George, I thought you irreligious?”

“Not today. I’ll start over tomorrow,” he replied, smiling.


End file.
